


Prepare as We Will

by rideswraptors



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Some Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 11:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: Jon doesn't return South with Daenerys after defeating the Night King.





	Prepare as We Will

**Author's Note:**

> So I accidentally went down a SanSan hole. (It was totally by accident, I SWEAR.) I was almost on board, but it just felt so wrong for me. I even wrote a fic, thinking I could justify it or see my way to it. Nope. Not a chance. 
> 
> I wrote a short Jonsa blip as recompense. This is my apology for ever doubting you lovely people.

He needed her close. 

Or, at least, that’s what Sansa told herself. The Long Night was over. Jon had taken the head of the Night King as Daenerys burned his army to ash. It was a battle that last seven days and seven nights. An interminable week to Sansa’s mind. So much had been restored to her, only to be threatened again. 

But then it was over. And Daenerys flew South to kill Cersei, to indict her for her betrayal. Jon remained in Winterfell. 

And that’s when the rumors started. 

They’d had an affair, that much was certain even to Sansa. Then he was revealed to be Rhaegar’s true son, and Daenerys left. They said she threw him over for a Martell. They said she’d broken Jon’s heart and he was licking his wounds and hurt pride. But Sansa knew nothing for sure. He didn't speak of such things to her. That he was sad, was obvious, but she couldn’t discover why. 

“He’s not worth it,” her Hound grumbled from her side. They stood in her solar, her mother’s solar, overlooking the yard. She watched Jon and Arya spar with one another, watched his friends cheer him on. It was a pleasant thing to see them at play. Too much blood had been shed; Sansa wanted their smiles and laughter.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Jon,” he spat back as he whittled a toy dog from weirwood. “The brooding cunt’s not worth your worry.”

Sansa scowled and shot a glare at him, “Have you no sense of familial obligation?”

His only response was to use his knife to point incredulously at his face. 

“Right,” she breathed out, turning to the window, “Not the best perspective on family. Which makes your advice even  _ less _ reliable.”

“Trust me, birdie. There are plenty of men good enough for you.”

“What? Like you?” she shot back primly, already knowing his answer. He pointed at her with his dagger. 

“Saying stupid shite doesn’t fucking suit you.”

Sansa turned away from him, a fond look on her face. Sandor was far from her worst choice, but he much preferred a solitary existence. He’d stubbornly remained at her side after returning from North of the Wall. Daenerys had requested his presence in King’s Landing, but he’d laughed in her face. He didn’t want the politics. He didn’t want the south. He wanted a peaceful life in the North, making amends for his failings. Sansa was content to let him, so long as he didn’t brutalize himself purposely. He was more good company than sworn shield, but Jon insisted that she have a personal guard after Brienne married Jaime Lannister and went South. Sansa didn’t trust anyone but Arya, Jon, and Sandor, so it was an easy choice. 

“I just want him happy, Sandor. After everything at least  _ one _ Stark should have a happy ending.”

“You know I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“ _ Dramatic.” _

_ “ _ Old,” he corrected, “Put upon. Crippled and tired!”

“You are  _ not  _ crippled!”

“How many maesters have to tell you? Seriously go fuck yourself.”

“The way you speak to me-“

“Aint about to change. Now hand me that pillow before I change my mind and lock you in your rooms tonight.”

“ _ Ridiculous _ man.”

**

Jon gathered his closest advisors together. They were a ragtag crew. They consisted of two bastards, a smuggler, a hired killer, and a maester with a wife and son. Jon wouldn’t have traded any of them for anything. 

Still, he might have gone to Gendry first. Just for advice. He had...well he had a way about him when it came to women. Jon had already agreed to let him marry Arya when the time came. That time being whenever she deigned to say yes. It was a game now. Gendry asked. Arya laughed at him. Someone else made some gold. But Gendry didn’t seemed deterred or disheartened in the least. He seemed more in love with Arya than ever. Jon should have gone to ask him why. 

They sat around the table in his study, drinking mead Clegane had pulled from the stores. Probably without permission. He all but had run of the place since everyone was terrified of him and Sansa never denied him anything. Made Jon clench his fists to think on. 

“So what do you need, my lord?” Davos asked politely. The rest looked skeptical. Except Sam. He just looked amused. 

“I received a raven this morning.” He sighed, sitting down. “From King’s Landing.”

Sandor and Gendry groaned. The other two were silent, but not looking pleased. 

“What the buggering fuck does she want now?” Sandor groused. 

“Probably tribute to feed Drogon,” Gendry answered lowly, making Sandor snicker. 

“Would you two—!”

Jon raised a hand, cutting Sam off. “She has  _ thoughts _ about my marriage.”

They stared at him dumbstruck. 

“I am not going to King’s Landing,” Sam said stubbornly. 

“Aye,” Davos agreed grimly. 

“Fuck that fucking throne. I’m sick of hearing about it.”

They talked among themselves about their worst southron experiences. Gendry remained quiet, looking at Jon. 

“That’s not what she said, is it?” Gendry said. It wasn’t so much a question as it was a request for confirmation. Jon met Gendry’s Baratheon eyes. They were Stannis’ eyes. Robert’s eyes. 

“No. It’s not.” He cleared his throat. “Daenerys wants me to stay here. To...marry Sansa.”

His advisors stared at him blankly for a long, silent moment. Then all at once, they erupted into protests. 

“She can’t just order you about like that!”

“Buggering fuck—!”

“It’s not wise to continue playing her games.”

Sam was talking too fast for him to understand. So Jon slammed his fist on the table to get them to shut up. 

“Clegane.”

“I will kill you my fucking self.”

“Noted. Davos?”

“She could be playing games. Mayhap she was sincere in the past, but…” He raised his brows meaningfully. Jon nodded shortly. 

“Sam?”

“Why should she be forced to marry again? Hasn’t Lady Sansa been through enough? She’s only just started smiling again.”

He bobbed his head. Sentimental but true. And even those few smiles were hardwon. 

“Gendry?”

The younger man shrugged. “I think it’s a good plan.” And so it was his turn to be stared at. “What? Think about it. Lady Sansa doesn’t have to leave. We don’t have to take in strangers. The child would be Stark and Targaryen.” Jon winced. “Win. Win. Win.” He held Jon’s gaze. “We fought in that damnable war to bring everyone home. To save this place. Marrying Sansa keeps you both safe from manipulation.”

They were quiet for a while, looking at one another. No one expected for it to be Sandor to speak up next. 

“He’s right. It’s a good plan.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at him in confusion. Sandor threw an accusing finger in his direction. “I trust you. I don’t trust anyone else. If anyone’s gonna keep little bird safe, it’s you.”

“I’m her brother.”

Sam shrugged rolling his beefy shoulders with indifference, “Only  _ sort of _ .”

“The queen isn’t asking for children. She is asking you for a marriage.”

“So we wed and live as brother and sister?”

They all shrugged with nods. 

Jon crossed his arms. “So who inherits Winterfell?”

All their eyes turned on Gendry. 

“Oi I’m working on it all right? She is  _ stubborn _ .”

“Wouldn't be if you’d just—“ Sandor was cut off by Davos and Jon’s protesting. 

“Right. We secure Gendry’s engagement to Arya, keep it quiet. Convince Sansa to marry Jon, and then you two will wed. Your children will be their heirs.”

Jon clenched the back of his chair, leaning forward over it. 

“What if she doesn’t agree?”

“What are her other options? Glovers? Karstarks? A wildling?” Gendry countered. 

“Or a southroner,” Davos continued. “Mayhap someone from The Reach or Dorne.”

“You’ve family enough in the Riverlands,” Sam added 

Jon found his frown deepening as they continued discussing her possible offers. This is what he’d feared most. A crowd of men deciding what was best for Sansa. Discussing her as pawn in petty politics instead of her wishes and her happiness. As the sneer on his face grew, he looked up to see Sandor Clegane eyeing him thoughtfully, a smile tugging at his ruined skin. 

“I think you know your mind well enough, Snow.”

*

Occasionally, Sansa liked to wander the grounds on her own. She’d send Sandor away and cover her hair so that she wasn’t as recognizable. Sometimes, she even went into Winter Town. As she made her way through Winterfell, she came upon Arya and Gendry by the smithy, arguing as usual. Arya caught sight of her first, but pretended not to notice, so Sansa removed herself from view. Her sister would come find her. She leaned against the shed, dragging her foot in the thin blanket of snow on the ground. Sansa let her mind unfocus, let her gaze linger on that pure white in front of her. She found herself thinking of the Vale, of her snowcastle, of Petyr Baelish. Killing him had left her confused. Not because she doubted the rightness of it, but because she doubted her ability to function without him. Another lovely present he’d left her. 

Arya’s sudden appearance startled her.

“Gilly is looking for you.” 

She sighed, but continued her walk anyway, and Arya followed. They both knew where they were going.

“I only wanted some time to myself.”

Her sister shrugged, probably understanding the impulse all too well. They both had spent so much time in isolation, so much time anxious and pained in the company of others, that the solitude was more than welcome. The Stark girls made their way through the snow, heads together as they talked quietly to one another. This was how they’d planned to kill Littlefinger. Sansa would slip away from her guards, under cover of a heavy cloak, and meet Arya in the crypt. When people got suspicious, they’d leave each other messages at the foot of Rickon’s statue. It was fitting, their slain brother helping them avenge their family’s deaths. 

So now they stood before their loved ones, free from tormentors, certain of each other. Arya clasped her hand when her eyes landed upon their mother. She’d spoken of her trip with the Hound to find Catelyn Stark, of what she’d seen. It was probably as horrible as looking upon your headless father’s body as the crowds cheered below. How could such awful things happen? And who thought of them? 

But then Arya tugged at her hand and pulled her along to stand in front of their Aunt Lyanna. And so Sansa sighed heavily. They two had had many  _ long _ conversations about the whole affair. Sansa blamed their father for keeping that information from them, from their mother, and hurting her so. Arya was always trying to get her to forgive him, to let it go. She couldn’t say why exactly that it bothered her so much. Mayhap she had simply been closer to Catelyn than Arya, and had witnessed her pain firsthand. 

“I suppose you’ve heard, then?” she asked her little sister quietly. The young woman merely nodded, staring up at the woman her father so loved. Sansa smiled inwardly at it; their father had always said Arya was just like Lyanna. Impulsive, eager, wild. Sansa had grown to love and admire those traits in Arya, if only because they were so lacking in Sansa. She felt more complete, more stable, at her sister’s side. Together, they just made sense. And thus, her opinions meant a great deal. When Arya remained silent, Sansa continued.

“Do I need to bring Bran down here to know your mind?” That earned her an eye roll, an expression so familiar and utterly dear to her now. “I’d hear your opinion,” she finished meekly, trailing off and trying to avoid her sister’s face. She didn’t want to see the judgement there. 

“It’s strange,” Arya offered.

“Yes.” 

“And a bit…”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Sansa agreed.

“But I fail to see another option.” 

Sansa could only hum in response. 

“I mean…” Arya corrected, her voice thick, “Another option that keeps us all here. Together.” She cleared her throat and straightened her posture, chin up. “Besides, I couldn’t tolerate another woman in our mother’s chambers.”

Sansa shot a sidelong look at her sister, who looked for all the world like she was trying to hide her real feelings on the subject. Honest in her logic, yes, but not in how she felt. 

“It’s not your job to protect me, Arya.”

She scoffed, “We protect each other. There is no other way.” 

“And that’s all this is? Protecting each other?”

She heard Arya’s long sigh, felt the way her arms moved as the breath rolled through her body. 

“That’s all it has to be.”

This statement caused Sansa to lift a brow, even as she examined the roses carved into Lyanna Stark’s statue. Well, Lyanna Targaryen now. 

“Explain.” 

Arya sniffed. “Gendry.” Sansa decided to wait instead of pulling it from her. That was really the  _ only _ way to get Arya to talk. Sansa could physically  _ feel _ her sister’s scowl. “The marriage would have to be consummated, of course. But. You need an heir, maybe two.”

“Yes…” Sansa agreed slowly.

“So if I accept Gendry…”

Sansa smirked, “Thought you weren’t done torturing him?”

“Yes, well...this is more important.”

Gendry had refused to apologize for parting ways with Arya all those years ago. He claimed it had done them both good, and everything had turned out for the better. So Arya had declared that she wouldn’t marry him until he admitted he was wrong. Naturally, Sansa and Gendry were the only ones aware of this...detail, and so everyone else thought Gendry a lovesick fool and Arya a cruel bitch. Only they two were permitted to know that Arya was, in fact, quite sentimental. Though, it should have been obvious; Arya still carried Needle on her hip.

“I want you here,” Arya continued, “I want us to be together. We’ve endured enough.” 

Sansa breathed a short sigh of relief, “But what about Jon?”

“What about him?”

“He’s been...distant.”

More distant than made Sansa comfortable. They’d had such a short, pleasant time where they shared everything. That all changed when he went South. She presumed he resented being home, of having to learn of Winterfell’s ways during peacetime. Petulant that his lover had rejected him. He deserved more than obligation.

“Don’t you...Don’t you agree that he should have an opportunity to be happy?”

“And why wouldn’t he be? You care about each other, you respect each other, you’re home. What else is there?” 

“Whatever he had with Daenerys,” she grumbled, shifting her weight petulantly. Arya turned then, arching her brow, a look of mischief on her face. 

“Daenerys left him for a chair made of swords. Whatever they had was…”

“Fragile?” Sansa supplied. 

“Biological.” 

“That’s disgusting.”

“They say it runs in the blood.”

“ _ Stop _ .”

“Well--”

They were interrupted by Ghost’s entrance into the crypt. They turned their heads as he trotted in, as Starks were wont to do. Nymeria had returned during the Long Night, staying with Sansa so Arya could fight against the wights alongside Jon. Four Starks, two direwolves. Not enough by Sansa’s standards. Ghost had the tendency to stay close to the sisters, finding them even when they didn’t want to be found. He patrolled Winterfell, waiting for his master’s call. 

“Who does he need?” Sansa asked the direwolf. He trotted over to her, nuzzling into her hand and skirts. Sansa rubbed his ears and smiled over her sister. 

“I’m not at all convinced that he doesn’t have Bran spy on us.” 

“As if Bran would do such a thing.” 

“Then Ghost knows your scent better. He never finds me when I’m alone.” 

Sansa rolled her eyes, smiling all the same. 

“Duty calls.” 

“You’ll tell me of the outcome?”

“Of course. I imagine you have business to attend to?” 

“He’ll find me. He always does.” 

“Go easy on him, sister. Men are so very fragile.” 

“No promises.”

*

Sansa followed Ghost from the crypt, her hand resting in his withers. She spoke to him, asking rhetorical questions and telling him how brave and strong he was. She might have continued her soliloquy had not Gilly overtaken her. 

“Your ladyship! How can you be about in this cold with no gloves on those pretty hands?” Her handmaiden scolded her, pulling a spare pair from her pockets and slipping them on her hands. She grumbled about bad habits and recklessness. Sansa smiled even as Gilly fussed. But she grew concerned by the torrid look in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks. She seemed out of sorts. Sansa slumped in her irritation when she realized it.

“Sam’s told you,” she concluded, meeting Gilly’s panicked eyes.

“No! He--” She cut herself off when Sansa lifted a brow. “Well of course he did--”

“Gossip spreads faster than disease.”

“He only wanted to help, for me to look after ya properly--”

“How in seven hells did we win two wars in less than a year with so many wagging tongues about?”

“ _ My lady! _ ”

Sansa settled herself and focused on Gilly’s irritated face. Her lovely, irritated face. She’d been such a blessing and a comfort through everything. And little Sam, well, he’d been sunshine in winter.

“Calm yourself, dear. I am just fine. And after all of this has passed, I will continue to be fine. He is...family, after all.”

“It’s not right,” Gilly whined, “forcing you like this.”

“Jon would never force me to do anything.” She clasped Gilly’s hands in her own, “There is still much to discuss. No need to worry just yet.” 

Gilly lifted her hands to kiss them, and pulled her along to the main house. 

*

Jon paced, sorely wishing that he’d accepted that drink Sandor offered. Jon wanted to be clear-headed, and alone, so he’d sent his council away. Sandor had been prepared to go in search of Sansa, but Jon needed only send a quick thought to Ghost to locate her.

In the crypts. With Arya, probably. 

Then there was a knock at his door, and he looked up in a panic. Sansa slid in through the door without waiting for his reply. Not unlike her, he thought, but troubling. She leaned back against the door, watching him, not afraid but not entirely trusting either. It only took a tilt of her head for him to realize. 

“ _ How _ ?”

Sansa could only scowl, “Words are wind. And wind travels quickly.” 

He threw his hands up in the air and sunk into the nearest chair, frustrated beyond belief. How was he supposed to look at her now, let alone make an offer? She pushed herself from the door, and he heard the swish of her skirts as she approached him. Jon stubbornly kept his gaze fixed on the fire in the hearth. He was sick unto death of this nonsensical maneuvering, sick of being threatened and jerked around. And he was  _ definitely _ sick of Dany’s thoughts about Sansa. He was only pulled from his brooding when Sansa came to stand next to him and tugged up his hand into hers. 

“It’s not all so bad, Jon.”  He rolled his head to look up at her, clutching her hand more firmly in his.  _ Not so bad _ , she said. And yet there was fear in her eyes, distance in her gaze. This was the girl who’d dreamt of courtly manners and pretty faces, flowers and epic romances. She deserved better than the likes of him. He tracked her face even as she knelt next to him, placing her hands in his lap so that he could hold them. “Talk to me,” she pleaded. “You never talk to me anymore.” 

“Sansa, we speak every day,” he argued, not at all sure what she wanted of him. She only shook her head, disapproving. 

“We speak of household business, of land disputes and famine. But you don’t...not since you’ve come back.” 

He let his thumb rub over her hand and leaned back against the headrest to look at her. If there was one thing that he had learned quickly from Ned Stark was that when you offended a woman, you apologized, quickly and without a thought to your pride.

“I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.” 

She shook her head, squeezing his hand, “I know you’ve had a lot on your mind. There’s been repairs and complaints and raids and…” She trailed off, but he caught a flash of something in her eyes that he didn’t understand.

“And what?” he probed.

She shook her head again and stood to pull away from him, “Nothing. There is much still left to be done, and I understand that you wouldn’t want to confide in your--”

She broke off sharply, looking a little broken by the reason she had to, and he wished not for the first time that Daenerys had left her out of this mess their family had made.

“I just understand,” she finished quickly, seemingly out of breath. She brought her hands together at her waist, clasping them in her sleeves. Defensive tactic, he thought very quietly. She only took on her Cersei-pose, as Arya called it, when she was feeling scared or threatened. What could he have possibly done to provoke that feeling in her? He started to rise, concerned.

“I don’t think you do.” 

She took a step back. But when he was at full height, she was at ease again, completely neutral, posture relaxed, lips curved in a smile. What in seven hells? 

“Regardless,” she said airily, with too much lightness, “Queen Daenerys wishes us to marry, and it need not be a true marriage, just one in name. Arya offered--”

“What did she offer?” he snapped mulishly, not at all happy that suddenly both of his sisters felt obligated to be wrapped up in this situation. 

“To marry Gendry, of course. He has been asking--”

“I know.”

“And that would be true marriage, so we could simply name their children our heirs and be done with it.” 

He listened as his council’s plan echoed in his ears, listened as the woman before him killed the last of the girl inside of her.  _ Kill the boy _ , he’d said,  _ let the man be born _ . Aemon Targaryen’s words rattled in his brain, projected onto Sansa. 

“You’re right,” he said, nodding. Then he shrugged widely, “It’s a good plan. No one could displace you. You’d be safe.” 

“I wasn’t thinking…” she trailed off, looking down at the floor. “I’d do whatever you asked of me.” 

She looked small and sad, and so many things that he didn’t want to think about. Cursing every god in existence, he walked quickly over to her and swept her up in a tight embrace. She was too tall to fit under his chin, but she wrapped her arms around his neck and pushed her face into his hair, and he felt the panic subside. 

“Then stay,” he said harshly, “And marry me.” 

Her only response was a frantic nod and a tighter grip.

*

They married a fortnight later, a quiet ceremony held in the godswood. It was small; no lords or bannermen, no outsiders. Just the Starks and Jon’s council. Arya and Bran waited beside Jon, Sam performed the ceremony, and Sandor gave the bride away. The night was still and peaceful, and snow fell lightly. Sansa tried to comfort herself, to think of it as a blessing. She’d overheated during her wedding to Tyrion and the air had been frigid the night she married Ramsay. The wind was gentle on her skin this night, and the wolves sang their song in the distance. Nymeria and Ghost lingered nearby, waiting. 

Sam read the rite and they repeated their vows. Jon had taken the Stark name, refusing his Targaryen birthright, so there was that at least. She wouldn’t have to change her name or colors. When he put his heavy cloak on her shoulders, she was reminded of when she’d made it for him. Those first few days had been wonderful, if only because she could be near one of her own, someone who wouldn’t hurt her or use her. His smiles and embraces had been so welcome, so comforting despite the bitter air. Jon kissed her forehead reverently, just as he had the morning after Ramsay died. Perhaps there would never be romantic love between them, but she certainly felt loved. Loved and safe. 

There was no great feast, no bedding ceremony. Just a shared bottle of wine, and then they retired for the evening. They were silent as they returned to Jon’s chambers. Tense but not entirely uncomfortable. Sansa knew what was to come, and Jon would never treat her so cruelly as Ramsay, so there was little to fear. It was...still strange, but not as terrible as others might have believed. Jon, though, did seem unduly distressed the closer they came to the door. He went to open it, but Sansa stopped him with a touch of her hand. His head twisted sharply to look at her.

“What is it?”

She took in a long breath to steady herself, “Beyond that door, we’re still us. Me and you. That doesn’t change.” 

He nodded, lips in a thin line, and then ushered her inside. 

They readied themselves for bed, stripping their outer clothing, replacing them with robes, and performed their own ablutions. But when Sansa moved for the bed, Jon hesitated, sword hand clenching as he glared down at it. Sansa went to him instead, wrapping two hands around the one that couldn’t stop moving. She didn’t say anything at first, just waited respectfully. 

He sucked in a breath, “It feels like I’m betraying Robb.” It came out in a rush of air, harsh and stilted. He’d been thinking on it for a while, apparently. Sansa nodded.

“I know.”

He finally looked at her, eyes wide. “You do?” 

Again, she nodded.

“Feels like I’m betraying Mother,” she said, trying to stifle the shame of it. She kept hold of his hands and led him to sit. “I can hear her voice in my head, you know?” He nodded, stubbornly silent. “She just...expected so much of me. And these rooms?” she gestured around them, “They were supposed to be Robb’s. And you…”

“And me.”

She shook her head, “It’s stupid.” He tried to interrupt her. “No, it is. It is stupid. Because they’re dead and we’re here. For a reason. They were foolish and stubborn, the both of them. They were too quick to lash out and they trusted the wrong people. We’re here. And nothing that happens here will be unexpected.” 

“Sansa…” he was damn near begging her.

“I am not afraid of you, Jon. I’m just not.” 

He pulled their clasped hands toward him, bending to kiss them. 

“We don’t have to do this tonight.”

She frowned, “Is that wise?” 

Jon hung his head first before he lifted it, brow furrowed and eyes sad, “No.” She nearly rose to go to the bed, but he tightened his grip, keeping her in place. “Let’s...can we just talk? Like we used to?” 

The hope in his eyes was almost unbearable, to the point that she melted and smiled at him. “Do we still have that Wildling milk?” 

His face lit up, “I had to hide it from Clegane.” 

“Well go and get it!” 

Their evening was much more enjoyable after that. They passed the flagon back and forth, trying to one up each other with stories of their travels or their childhoods. They pointedly ignored discussing Ramsay and Castle Black, but both had seen a great deal. Their childhood stories were much more entertaining. Robb, Jon, and Theon had been absolute terrors, and Sansa and Jeyne Poole had played plenty of tricks on Septa Mordane and the servants. They talked about Robb and Rickon, and told the most ridiculous stories about Arya that they could think of. The Wildling milk loosened their tongues, relaxing them more they had been in years. Their smiles were wide and their laughter was loud. Mayhap getting stupidly drunk on your wedding night was not the best way to spend it, but at least they were talking and able to lean into one another. The physical closeness felt nice. She’d not had that before, not with any man. But he must have, because at least some of the rumors had to be true.

“Tell me about Ygritte,” she said before taking a long gulp of the milk. 

“And where did you hear that name?” he asked stiffly. 

She shrugged, “People talk.” 

“Aye,” he grumbled, swiping the flagon back, “That they do.” 

She leaned more heavily into his side, laying her head on his shoulder. He tried to hand the flagon back, but she flinched away from it. He drained what was left.

“Tell me something about her.” She twisted her head to look up at him, “Please?” 

He let out a soft laugh through his nose, “She had red hair.”

“You’re japing.”

He shook his head, his lips twisting into an amused grin, “No. Kissed by fire. That’s what the Wildlings call it.” His eyes seemed to go out of focus for a long moment. “She was a lot like Arya, I guess. Absolutely mad, fierce, fearless. She was reactive. If she felt something, she did something about it. Good fighter, too.” That sounded more like the kind of woman Jon would get along with. Someone who could ride into battle with him, someone who could protect him and her own self. Someone not so preoccupied with what was proper.

“What happened to her?” she asked quietly, trying not to think too hard on what Jon was missing because of her.

“She died. In a battle at Castle Black. They, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve told you before about what I had to do, befriending the Wildlings, going back to the Watch.” She nodded. She’d heard the tale, in what she thought had been full. Some pieces were missing, evidently. “There was a boy. His parents were killed during a Wildling raid. I’d brought him back, just to have a place in the world. Ygritte came after me. And that boy put an arrow through her heart.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

She felt the roll of his shrug under her, his hand stroked her arm, fingers reaching for the tips of her hair. 

“If it hadn’t been then, it would have been the battle after that, or the next, or the next. Most of the people I’ve known have died.” 

“Me too.” She brought a hand up twisting the fabric of his robe. “I’m sorry I never got to meet her.”

“You would have  _ hated _ her,” he teased. Sansa laughed outright.

“Good! Because the people I mislike the most turn out to be the best.” 

That had him inexplicably laughing, his chest shaking under her so much that she couldn’t help but laugh with him. 

“We are  _ beyond _ help, did you know that?”

“Absolutely,” she japed. 

“I don’t know what Dany was thinking,” he mused, “thinking that I could tolerate King’s Landing. That it could tolerate  _ me _ .” 

It was a drunken thought, certainly, but it was the most confusing thing he’d said all night. And he had been quite drunk for some time. 

“Wait, what?”

But he dismissed it. “Nothing. I’m drunk.” 

Sansa sat up straight, blinking hard in an effort to focus, “Did you just say that Daenerys wanted you in King’s Landing?”

His eyes were nearly bloodshot as he looked at her incredulously, like  _ she _ was the one who was saying ridiculous drunken things in a drunken stupor.

“Answer the bloody question!” she insisted, slapping his arm. 

He grimaced, “Ow? Sheesh. Aye, she wanted me to go South with her. Obviously I said no.”

Sansa was ramrod straight now, head tilted in confusion. Her hair had come loose of its braid, and she kept getting distracted by its wildness. Focusing was quite difficult after half a flagon of Wildling milk. 

“Everyone said--” she felt a little dizzy after moving so quickly, “Wait, what?”

“Everyone said what? About me?” he pointed to himself incredulously. 

“They said--” she put a heavy hand on his chest to steady herself. “They said she left you here. Rejected you.” 

He shook his head, “Nope. She wanted me to go and marry her and live in that awful city, and I just said  _ no _ . Not leaving you and the girls and Bran and  _ you _ .” He pointed at her ridiculously with a bewildering grin on his face. Sansa swatted his hand away. 

“Why would you  _ do _ that? I thought you--I mean, you and her were…”

“Fucking?”

Sansa shrieked in outrage at his language, smacking him on the arm even harder when he laughed at her. 

“I can’t believe you just said that!”

“Why not?” he tossed his hands up, “Everyone else is saying it.”

She collapsed in a fit of laughter on top of him, and the two of them laughed themselves tired. Sansa thought she’d never want to move again.

“We have to get in bed.”

“Noooo,” she whined.

“Aye, needs must. My back can’t take a chaise anymore.” 

“You used to sleep in the woods,” she argued.

“Where  _ exactly _ do you think I was?” 

“I have no clue, but it was not Father’s bed.” 

He poked her, “Don’t say things like that. It’s strange. Too strange.” 

“I can’t help it if Starks have the annoying habit of keeping  _ everything _ their ancestors ever owned ever.” 

“Not helping.”

“We could burn it. Oooh, send a raven to Dany! She could send Rhaegal!” 

Jon rolled off the chaise, his knees hitting the floor before he hoisted himself up and pointed down at her accusingly. 

“All right, you’re drunk. Up and in bed, let’s go.” 

She swatted at him, “Who are you to boss me about?” 

At this he smirked, a realization sweeping over him and he clapped his hands together, “Your lord  _ husband. _ Haha! You have to do what I sa-ay,” he sang at her. That had her kicking out at him. He tried to dart away, but only succeeded in falling on his arse. Sansa laughed uproariously, clapping her hands together with glee.

“Hero of the Long Night, my  _ arse _ !” she cackled even as he glared up at her. He weakly kicked a leg up at her.

“Come on, Sans, bed.” 

“Oh  _ fine _ ,” she whined, but got up anyway, and stumbled for the big bed that had seemed a lot closer before she got up. When she finally collapsed on it, Jon falling onto the other side, she nearly moaned in relief. It was so much more comfortable than that stupid chaise. She should have it burned. 

“Stop talking about burning things. You sound like Tyrion when he’s in his cups.”

“I do  _ not _ !” she laughed.

“He asks her to have Drogon set things on fire  _ all _ of the time.” 

“You’re a rotten liar, Jon Stark.” 

He went still and quiet, his head twisting to stare at her with those big gray eyes of him.  _ They must have been Aunt Lyanna’s eyes _ , she thought nonsensically. 

“Sorry,” she whispered regretfully, “Slipped out.” 

He exhaled sharply, “That’s all I ever wanted, you know. To be a Stark.” 

“You always were,” she shot back, “I know it didn’t always feel like that.” 

“No one’s said it yet. Everybody here calls me Snow.” 

“Does it bother you?”  He shook his head, turning his attention to the ceiling. “It’s like I said before the war, you’re a Stark to me.” 

Without a word, he sat up, staring down at her with an expression on his face that she’d never seen before. Well, she’d seen it before, just not on him and not directed at her. 

“Jon?” 

Still, he didn’t say anything. Instead he lifted a hand to her face, his fingers tracing the curves of her bones, barely brushing the soft pad of her cheek. She repeated his name, but he still didn’t answer. Then, he planted his hand next to her head and leaned down. Sansa snapped her eyes shut so quickly that she was almost dizzy from it, but when his lips settled firmly on hers, the world righted itself. 

He was warm, and lovely, and he was so very gentle with her. Drunken men had never been kind to her. Most men had never been kind to her. Jon was always kind. Jon always thought about Sansa’s feelings, even when he was in the middle of beating a man to death. He was good and brave, and he knew how to kiss well. 

The exchange was short, much too short to Sansa’s inebriated mind. But it was pleasant. And rather enlightening. He pulled up from her a short distance, just enough to look her in the eye. There it was, a sight she was all too familiar with: lust. She lifted a hand to his face and he leaned into the touch. In her haze, she remembered why they’d started drinking in the first place. She remembered why they were there at all. 

“We should sleep, Jon,” she said softly, not taking her hand away. He lingered for a long moment, a moment that stretched and frightened her. But then he nodded, kissed her palm, and laid down next to her. 

She needn’t have worried about their sleeping positions. Jon pulled her fully against him, hooked an arm around her and let her drop her head to his chest. He reached for a fur, covering them both, and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. 

“They can’t take you now,” he mumbled against her head. “Safe with me.”

“Sleep, Jon. Just sleep.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the formatting and logistical errors, not beta'd.


End file.
